A Heavy Axe to Swing
by Lycanthrope516
Summary: "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm not the chief that you wanted me to be and I'm not the peacekeeper I thought I was. I... don't know...How do you become someone that great, that brave, that selfless?"


Two weeks ago, Hiccup thought he had everything: A mother, a father, a best friend, a home, a lover. Now it's all slipping away. More and more he throws himself into his work, rarely sleeping, rarely eating because he knows there's no one waiting for him to come home anymore.

That night was one of many late nights that he spent sitting in the great hall well after the council had left, looking at maps, ledgers, and trade documents, trying to make sense of it all, and in the process hoping to make sense of the turmoil inside his mind. He spent those nights, and all the others since his father's death, achingly aware of how it was _him _in his father's chair and how that chair, and everything that came with it, dwarfed him.

So lost was he, so intent on pushing away his grief and burying his insecurities, he missed the sound of the great creaking doors as someone slipped in, nor did he notice that person's presence behind him until a gravelly voice disguised by the thick accent of the village said, in a gentle tone that did not become the man at all, "Oh, boyo."

"Spitelout!" Hiccup sprang up out of his chair, startled. "I didn't notice you come in, is something wrong?" The man rarely came looking for Hiccup otherwise.

"I don' know, boyo, you tell me," said Spitelout, pushing Hiccup back down into his chair. "You've been stayin' out late ever ya got the job. Ye need to rest, laddy." He sat down next to Hiccup, looking him eye to eye the way no one else in the village seemed to be able to anymore because they all knew it was his fault Stoick was dead.

Hiccup rubbed his eyes. "I'll rest as soon as I'm done going through these documents," _and making up for my mistakes_, Hiccup wanted to add, but his newfound position as chief demanded he save face, and be strong in front of the community even though all he wanted to do was go home and fall into his father's arms, but that was no longer possible, and it never would be again. He was broken for good now and there was no one to fix him anymore, not the way his father could. Startled out of his reverie by Spitelout's deep guffaw he stared at the man, astonished.

"Sure, boyo, and I'm a dragon's cousin!" Spitelout wiped a tear away. "Ye don't have to lie to me, boy, I know you've got a heavy axe to swing and a big helmet to fill. But ye don't ha' to do it alone." He placed a hand on his shoulder, reminding Hiccup all too well of another man that used to clap him on the shoulder, one with a full bushy beard and bushy eyebrows to match.

"Spitelout, I don't know what you heard, but I'm fine, honestly, you don't need to worry about me."

"Hiccup, lad, everyone's worried about ya. Yer mother and Astrid and that dragon of yers most of all, but us too. I'm just here on behalf of the village or the council laddy, I'm worried about ye."

"I told you I'm fine," Hiccup said, but he didn't mean a word, and his voice betrayed him, revealing the broken boy behind the mask of man.

"Ye're not fine. So don't bother acting like ye are. We're a village of warriors, we've all grieved before. We understand. No one's expectin' ye to take his place."

"Yes, they are, Spitelout! They all look to me now! I don't have time to wallow in bed and cry, there are more important things out there than me," Hiccup nearly shouted as he stood from his chair, but he managed to reign his emotions in; it wouldn't do to yell at his Uncle, even if he didn't act the part most of the time.

"Hiccup, listen to yerself!" Spitelout stood. "Ye can't keep going on this way. Yer of no use to the village like this." He lay a hand on Hiccup's shoulder. "We need ye at yer best, laddy, and if that means giving ye space, we're all more than ready to do that."

"You say that now, but after one day people will be saying that I'm not there for them, that I'm not a good chief. And they'd be right! I'm not a good chief! I can't do this the way he could, Spitelout! I can't—I don't know how to be the man that he was." Hiccup revealed; it was an insecurity that, in hindsight, he'd had his whole life, but one that he'd thought he'd beaten. "I can't afford to slack off, not even for a second." He resolved, raising his shoulders and steeling his eyes. He was the chief and he would not break.

"Laddy, crying ain't slackin' off, it's takin' care o' yerself. Yer working yerself into the ground like this."

"It's what the village needs, Spitelout."

Spitelout looked at Hiccup. Really looked at him. He was thin, thinner than normal because he hadn't been eating well. There were bags under his eyes darker than the scales of a Night Fury, but his eyes were hard as stone; he wouldn't let anyone in. He limped all the time, and when he thought no one was looking he rubbed his most likely aching stump. His hair was unkept yet had so many braids littering it he knew he didn't even have the energy to stop Astrid form braiding them. What was most noticeable were the burns and bruises and blisters on his hands from the forge. He didn't bother to care for them more than just washing them out with water and bandaging them but everyone pretended not to notice the way blood would trickle down his hand when he was writing and looking over documents, he really was working himself to death, but Spitelout had seen this before.

Many warriors came back from raids hollow and defeated, despite having come back laden with loot and victorious, because they'd lost a loved one to battle. Spitelout himself had lost many to battle, and although it was hard, he knew they were feasting in Valhalla and reaping the spoils of battle forever. Now, Stoick was there too, but it didn't make the guilt any easier to carry; he knew what Hiccup must be feeling.

"Ye blame yerself dontcha?" He asked, startling the boy.

Hiccup nearly stopped breathing, right then and there. _How could he know? How could he __**know**__?_ He thought.

Spitelout stood in front of Hiccup, and grabbed the back of his head and his shoulder, making him look at him as he said, "Listen to me. It ain't yer fault. Do you hear me, laddy? It ain't yer fault."

Hiccup choked down the sobs that tried to crawl out of throat. He wouldn't show weakness, not even for a moment. Instead he bit his lip to keep from crying, but it didn't stop the whimper that escaped him.

"Oh, boyo. I know. Come 'ere," Spitelout said, pulling in for a hug, but the boy pushed away from his Uncle, wiping away the tears that he refused to acknowledge.

"I don't need your pity, Spitelout. I'm fine. I'm chief now. I just…I just have to push past this."

"Laddy, look at me."

Hiccup didn't.

"Ye may be mah chief now, but yer still mah nephew, and right now, yer acting like a real Yak."

"Well how do you want me to act?! What do you want me to do? Scream? Shout? Curse the Gods for taking my father away too soon?"

"Yes! Do something! Cry, throw things, yell, just grieve!"

"I can't! The needs of the many _always_ outway the needs of the few. That's the way it's always been, and the way it's always going to be. Goodbye, Spitelout, I'll see you tomorrow," Hiccup said, storming out of the Great Hall and into the night, back to his empty hut that reminded him every day of what he'd lost, and how he'd failed.

Spitelout watched the doors close behind Hiccup, as he stood in the dwindling light of the candles and torches along the Great Hall's walls.

ꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹꬹ

The hut was dark, as it always was, and effectively empty, as Toothless was already up in the loft, asleep. Hiccup wished he could do the same, but every step he took further into the home that was no longer a home, his heart broke a little bit more.

What right did Spitelout have to tell him what to do with his emotions? He was a grown man, a chief, he knew what was best. He had to, and how could he grieve? How could he allow himself to grieve when this village needed him? There was no room for Hiccup, the boy who rode dragons, only Chief Hiccup, the man who let his father die.

In one moment, everything had changed. He heard that death was slow, that often the men and women on the battlefield suffered before they finally bled to death, but Hiccup found that time couldn't move slowly enough. His father died almost instantly; he didn't even give Hiccup a chance to save him, he just died.

And now he stood in an empty house, that hadn't been home for what felt like a century. His father's barren chair was the centerpiece of that tragic picture, sitting empty and collecting dust as it had since the day Hiccup ran away and caused this whole mess to begin with.

It was his fault, despite what Spitelout would have him believe; he knew, deep in his heart, if it hadn't been for him his father would still be alive.

Hiccup shook his head clear of the mad thoughts that plagued him, knowing it was a dark path he should never have walked down, and limped past his father's chair towards the stairs to his loft. But even that path was dark and the wooden floors were old. Hiccup's metal leg caught on a loose floorboard, and sent him toppling into his father's chair. He knocked it to the ground and landed on top of it, groan ing.

He propped himself up on his hands and heaved sobs in between breaths as he tried to breathe in between sobs. The sight of his father's chair on the ground, with everything that it meant to Hiccup, sent him running head first into the dark path in his heart. He broke into ugly, heartbreaking sobs, ones that tore themselves out of his chest without his consent and ones that were so intense he feared they might break what's left of him.

Ordinarily, curling up beside his dragon and letting Toothless' comforting presence engulf him would have been enough, but this time there was nothing the dragon could do for him. Not that night.

Hiccup was alone, trapped in his grief that weighed heavy upon his chest. He lay where he fell, and there he slept: curled into his father's chair with a dragon's wings for a blanket.

The next morning, when he failed to show up to the Great Hall to finish discussing the repairs of the village with the council over breakfast, Spitelout was the one to go looking. He stood at the doorway to his chief's hut, ready for anything, as Hiccup had never bothered to close the door the other night, so Spitelout had only to walk in and see the boy, to know that he had had a rough night.

"Oh, boyo…." Spitelout whispered, walking into the hut that looked like a typhoomerang had spent the night there.

Spitelout grabbed him under the arms and dragged him away from the chair, righted it, and turned back to the sleeping boy with tear tracks on his cheeks. He lifted him easily—he really was a toothpick—and carried him up to his bed in the loft.

The village could manage a day without its chief. But Hiccup couldn't take another day like this.

Spitelout went back to the Great Hall, and informed the council that they would proceed without the chief, for he had some urgent matters to attend to. No one bought it, of course, but everyone could see Hiccup had been running himself ragged since he took the mantle, so no one questioned Spitelout, and they did the best they could without their chief.

The next morning, when Hiccup sat in his father's chair, it almost seemed like he sat a little straighter, a little stronger, a little brighter. He may be chief, but he lost his father in the fight for their lives, and nothing would ever change that. All he could do was honor his father's memory, and be the chief his father always knew he could be.


End file.
